In pace requiescat
by vanillapeachtea
Summary: Draco always wondered what pushed his parents towards suicide, there were a few possible factors, but the most likely one was the puppet.


**Disclaimer: I don't own harry potter.**

**A/N: This is a small story I wrote for a kind of contest between me and my friend Em, aka panasonic121. The prompt was horror, 1000-2000 words, and this is what I came up with! I don't feel that it's really that scary (I wrote this in like an hour) and it may be kinda confusing, but this is what I got! Please review and tell me what you think. Be sure to check out Panasonic's homestuck/vocaloid story too! There may be mild disturbing themes. **

~V~P~T~

The day my father died, was the day that my world truly fell apart. Like a shattered glass, each separate sliver gleamed with an awful shine, the lightest touch could break the skin, letting the red warmth underneath slowly spread out, like a blanket of burgundy silk, much like the one that was residing on my bed, equally as beautiful. Each tiny splinter, invisible to all until it is discovered, always in the most awful of fashions. He died in a very unimpressive fashion. I had always imagined such a prestigious wizard such as himself going in only the most regal and fashionable of ways. One day he just climbed the stairs up to the roof and I guess there were simply too many stairs because-he didn't take them on the way down. Oh my, such a messy way to go. My mother on the other hand chose a much more desirable path to her demise, hanging oneself generally rarely leaves a mess and was much easier for me to deal with. Not that the mess of my father was such a large hassle, a simple flick of my wand, and *poof* he was never even there, much more pleasant for the company.

I often find myself wondering, what exactly was it that pushed them toward such undignified ends? Surely casting a killing curse wasn't too difficult for such learned wizards as Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. Perhaps it was the harsh rejection society faced them with after the war? Or maybe they were just too wrapped up in the guilt of the pain they had inflicted upon many an individual? I myself had never been bothered by such a thing. Killing had become such an average thing to me, and without any consequences, I knew for certain that there was nothing wrong with that.

Or maybe it was just the puppet. The puppet was a common topic of conversation for them, only when they thought I wasn't listening for unknown reasons, but what they didn't know was that I would always listen. I myself had started to see the puppet when I would eat breakfast in the morning, sitting right across from me at our long oak wood table, with its own breakfast tray set out directly in front of him. The light from the candles causing his messy blond hair to shine unnaturally-clearly no one had been taking very good care of this doll. He was very well made, so realistic it was eerie, my compliments go out to the creator of this exceptional statue, with long sulfur yellow fingernails, very pale skin, like he had been held underwater for too long, and a kind of hollow emptiness in its silvery blue eyes, beautiful eyes, eyes like the moon. It could only possibly be wizard made, for no muggle would have a chance at making it so life like it felt almost alive, omitting an ominous sort of aura, if that is at all possible. Its lips seemed curved in a very slight smile, and I found myself wondering what exactly he found so humorous in an otherwise uneventful dining room. I would guess, however, that being a puppet and quite unable to move would greatly restrict your ability to find entertainment, so you would have to be amused only by your surroundings and the things directly in your view. What a boring life that must be, but as it is a puppet, it doesn't live at all does it?

It sometimes joins me when I'm gazing into the lake on my manor estate, but otherwise seems to prefer to keep its distance. I don't mind it much; it's a type of quiet companion, like a tiny little flower in an empty garden. I often heard my parents speak about seeing it at night, standing at the side of their bed, looking down on them, for hours upon hours and never leaving. But while he was in my room whilst I slept, he had never bothered to examine me in my nocturnal slumbering, he simply stayed under my bed, one pale hand occasionally found stretched out and clutching my bed sheets, but he never woke me or kept me from slumber.

I was there you know, both times that my parents died. Standing on the roof as my father fell to his death, sitting at my mother's dresser, watching in the pristine reflection that the gold rimmed mirror offered, as she raised the noose, and that is how I know for sure that he was there too. The puppet that is, immobile as he rested his hand on my father's shoulder, his expressionless silver eyes burning into the white blonde sheet of fair hair that hung down my father's back, sitting on the floor by my mother's gently swaying feet, as he rested his ghost like cheek to my her delicate ankle. My father had turned to stare at the puppet, never once so much as acknowledging me with a glance; he whispered, in a broken voice

"Draco… _please_."

It was of course odd that he addressed the puppet with my name, but I never did find out whether he was asking me to _please_ pass him a hair brush to fix his tangled hair or to _please_ get a house elf to bake a cake in celebration of my birthday, which was in two days, because he chose that less than ideal moment to jump backwards off of the roof. What an irritating way to die, leaving me in suspense.

My mother didn't address me, or the puppet in such a manner, she simply gave him a look of complete desperation and fear, the look of a cornered animal. What she expected him to do, I don't know, he was just a puppet, a realistic one, but simply a puppet. I wondered if my parents were maybe losing their minds.

I don't know when, but I am fairly sure that I started to sleepwalk recently, about a week before mother and father lost it, because I somehow woke up on the floor of my parents' room many a morning, right next to their bed. The puppet staring right back at me. I wondered how it was doing that. It's definitely a magical puppet if it's able to reside in a mirror, I smiled my slight smile at him, and he smiled just the same right back at me. Oh yes, this puppet and I get along just fine.


End file.
